


three nights

by mellarosa



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, TAZ Amnesty, a pretty chill fic actually they just talk a little bit and i dont know how to write ok, and i wanted badass ned! leave me alone i love all of clints characters ok, anyway this is super short, how did these two old men fuckin inspire me of all things, how do action scenes work....., i havent written fic in...... so long..........., i need to write more aubrey next time i love her, its not actually that violent at all i just wanted to be careful, moschicane - Freeform, theres like 2 paragraphs of a fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-31 05:24:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17843288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellarosa/pseuds/mellarosa
Summary: Ned is old and tired and wants to go to bed. Boyd wants money and an explanation.





	three nights

**Author's Note:**

> idk

Ned is tired. He’s real goddamn tired. It’s near two am, and he’s limping back to the Cryptonomica - not from any recent injury, just old age and a lifetime of bad decisions. 

“We’ll find it,” Aubrey had said brightly when he’d dropped her off at the lodge a few minutes ago. Goddamn kids and their goddamn positivity and energy and - and that shit. He and Duck had shared a commiserating, exhausted look. The problem wasn’t finding the abomination. They always popped up. The problem was finding it before it started murdering folks. It was a few days past when they should’ve caught some wind of it.

Poor Duck. He still wasn’t used to being, well, regular. It always made him grin a little to hear Duck complain about being “the only fuckin’ regular human on this team”, though. As if Ned himself wasn’t anything more than a shitty old con man who more often than not just tended to get in the way.

He locks the van and heads back to the ramshackle old building that’s Ned’s home and business, the lights off and the crickets the only noise around. Billy goes to bed real early, and Kirby must have locked up behind him. God bless the kid, really, though Ned’d never say that aloud. At least, not genuinely.

But when Ned reaches the door, he groans.

“Boyd,” Ned calls, pushing the rickety wooden door open. “The fuck d’you want?”

“How’d you know I was still here?” a gravelly, accented voice replies from deeper in the museum slash shop slash house, and slinking in from the shadows, with a dramatic panache he’d probably picked up from Ned himself, walks Boyd Mosche.

There’s a neon sign hanging, dim, in the shop, and it’s faint pinkish-purple light falls over Boyd neatly, throwing his handsome face into relief, shadowing his eyes, highlighting his muscled build. Ned firmly ignores it and moves past his old partner, flicking on the light in the back as he does so. Maybe if he heads upstairs and just goes to bed, Boyd will take the hint and piss off. 

Ned’s goddamn tired. “Because I know you, Boyd. Now would you kindly do me the favor of fucking off and letting me sleep in my own home?”

Boyd follows him, though, all the way upstairs, into the tiny kitchen, and leans against the doorframe as Ned pours himself a glass of shit whiskey that’s way more than the doctor ordered. He throws it all back - no point sipping at it when it tastes like drain cleaner with an entire bottle of vanilla extract dumped in.

“You clearly don’t know me well enough if you think I’m leaving now, Ned,” says Boyd. “Not till I get a yes from you.”

Ned knows. A couple years apart isn’t enough to make him forget. He’s old but he ain’t that old, and Boyd… that’s not someone one’s likely to forget.

“You gonna offer me some of that?” Boyd asks, when Ned chooses not to answer in favor of pouring himself another overfull glass of the whiskey.

There’s only one glass by the liquor. Ned doesn’t have people up here. Even Billy sleeps in a room off the chicanery downstairs. He hands Boyd the filled glass silently.

Boyd sips, and wrinkles his nose. “Fuck, Ned, that’s nasty.” He slams the rest of it, and Ned bites his tongue to avoid giving some witty repartee he knows he’ll regret. See? He’s changed. Couple of years settled down have been good for him. Right? “Jesus. That’s some of the worst shit I’ve had the pleasure of drinking, and I spent the last three years in prison.” That last addition is barbed, punctuated by Boyd shoving the glass back at Ned.

“No, it’s not,” Ned sighs. 

“No, it’s not,” Boyd agrees, and the ghost of a different smile, one Ned hasn’t seen in years, flashes briefly across his face. Prison and age haven’t done wonders to Boyd, but that smile’s still just as devilish and gorgeous as Ned remembers. “Remember New Orleans, ten years back-”

“-with the apple cider and the woman with the dreadful vest-” Ned continues, feeling a smile creep across his own face.

“-and all those clocks, god, why did we even try that one, Ned?” 

Only Boyd doesn’t say Ned. He says a different name, and it’s one Ned doesn’t hear much. Not at all, these days. Ned flinches, gripping the glass tight in his hands and looking down. He doesn’t see Boyd’s face. Doesn’t know if it’s satisfaction or regret that colors his expression, if Boyd meant to do that or not. 

On the one hand, Boyd’s a con man out for revenge, and he knows how to get what he wants.

On the other… it’s Boyd, and it’s Ned, and it’s them, and god it’s been a long few years. 

Ned’s real fuckin’ tired.

When Ned finally looks up, meets Boyd’s eyes, it’s just familiar, glittering eyes meeting his. “So what’s your answer?”

Ned takes a deep breath. “Boyd, I can’t, I - I told you. I got a thing going here. I got people who need me, and Mama - and Madeline Cobb, she’s a good woman. I. I can’t.”  
“So you’re still pretending that you’ve got morals now, huh?” Boyd asks, and there, there’s that venom dripping from his words, there’s the flash of teeth bared. “Bit ironic, given, well.”

Suddenly, with a surprising amount of force, Ned wants to tell him. About Amnesty Lodge, and Sylvain, and the abominations, the gate, about - fucking Bigfoot. Ned… misses working with Boyd. He can’t help it. Even with Boyd looming over him in this kitchen, spitting venom and threatening to shatter the fragile peace Ned’s built for himself… It’s Boyd. 

Ned misses the thrill of it all. Being in the Pine Guard, there’s plenty of adrenaline, but he’s trapped. He’s grown to love the Cryptonomica, and his friends (friends, Boyd! Ned has real actual friends-), and he even loves this, protecting people and doing good for once in his life. But screeching down the highway in the Lincoln, one had wrapped around the wheel and the other around a beer, Boyd in the seat next to him, his laugh deep and rough and warm and wild, the sunlight in his eyes and his grin sharper than the knife he keeps on him at all times. He misses running. He misses Boyd.

“What’re you gonna do, Boyd?” Ned asks tiredly. “Keep my shit? You won’t get any money for it, you know. Turn me in? You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?” 

Ned’s smile is bitter. “You wouldn’t.” 

The kitchen is silent for a long moment, then, “Maybe. But I won’t leave. And you’ll change your mind.” 

Ned pours himself another drink. When he turns back, Boyd is gone, but Ned hears the door downstairs shut. Which means Boyd let Ned hear. Which means… something. Ned’s not sure.

As Ned throws back his drink, he also realizes he’s not sure if Boyd’s right or not. 

\------

Well.

They found it.

Ned’s only human. Even Duck’s got a magic sword, even if it’s downgraded a little, and Ned’s a few years older than him. He’s not as fast as he used to be, and he’s not especially helpful against horrid skinless centaur-like beasts with arms that drag along the ground and leave blackish blood against the forest ground. 

‘Nuckelavee’, Barclay’d called it, and Aubrey had gotten a good burn in, Duck’d cut off a few fingers, and a missed shot from Ned’s magnum had actually caused a tree to fall on the thing, but it’d gotten away.

Ned’s favoring his right leg, his right arm fairly badly wrapped up from a nasty wound that ran up it - the thing’s breath had dissolved a few layers of his skin. He’s got scratches and mild cuts all over himself from a woodland chase, and he’s covered in dirt and slime and whatever-the-fuck. He’s clutching his NARF blaster maybe a little tighter than he normally would under different circumstances beneath his jacket.

But the abomination had escaped into the inky darkness of the forest, and even Duck couldn’t track it down, so they’d given in for the night, making plans to meet early the next morning at the lodge to figure out what the fuck to do.

Ned pulls in front of the Cryptonomica, ready to grab his four hours, when he sees a gentle glow in the second floor window, and he knocks his head into the steering wheel. Of course. Of fucking course.

“Boyd,” Ned says, dropping the magnum and the NARF blaster in the corner, tossing his jacket atop them. “I am really, really, really not in the mood, old friend, so if you would please leave and also go to hell it would be very much appreciated.” 

“Now, Ned, is that any way to greet- holy fucking shit Ned Chicane what the fuck have you done to yourself?!” Boyd’s deep, roughened voice hitches up a few notches when he sees Ned. 

Ned shoves past Boyd. “Oh. Wonderful. You drank all my whiskey.” 

“I got more,” Boyd says, handing him a bottle of significantly fancier alcohol. “Ned, what the fuck-”

“How does an honest man in such desperate need of money get something this nice?” Ned asks, choosing to ignore Boyd’s line of questioning. He collapses onto his rickety old couch and swigs straight from the bottle. 

“That’s not really what’s most important here right now, Ned!” Boyd - well, scolds, for lack of a better word. The bigger man kneels in front of Ned, taking his injured arm almost gently to inspect it, and Ned tips his head back and all but chugs the booze to hide the stinging wetness in his eyes. This is as old and familiar as Boyd’s wild grin - shitty couches and stolen whiskey and gently wrapping up injuries. 

“Oh, Jesus, Ned,” Boyd whispers, undoing the hasty bandage job Duck had done in the van before Ned’d dropped him off. Boyd’s hands are rougher than Ned remembers, but they’re still big, still sure. There’s a scar across his right knuckle that Ned himself had stitched up. “Jesus, hell. Do you have-”

“Bathroom, cabinet, top left shelf,” Ned sighs, resigned. Boyd nods and quickly grabs the first aid kit and a clean rag. “Why are you doing this, Boyd?” 

“I need that money, Ned,” Boyd says lowly. “I need it bad.” He carefully cleans Ned’s wound - not roughly, but quickly. Ned hisses a string of curses that he drowns with another swig. “I don’t understand,” Boyd admits after a few moments that should be far more awkward than they are. 

“What else is new? You were always the muscle, old friend.” Exhaustion drips from every syllable. “I was the one who needed to understand things.” Another swig.

“Fuck you too,” Boyd retorts, but not with much bite. The corners of his lips quirk up - but then his face shadows again. “I’ve been scoping out this place, Ned. You - this place - you’re not well-liked, Ned, and this sure as hell doesn’t seem quite up your alley. And it’s an easy job, you - you’re already at that lodge constantly, it can’t be that hard to snatch up that sculpture for an old friend. Especially one you owe so very much to” He finishes wrapping Ned’s arm and moves on to Ned’s face, where one particularly deep cut is still oozing a little. This close, Ned can smell the whiskey on Boyd’s breath and the leather and cedar that always seems to haunt him, can see the deep shadows and tired wrinkles around Boyd’s sharp blue eyes, and he closes his own to avoid their searching gaze, willing back the faint flush that threatens to rise above his collar at the feel of Boyd’s rough fingertips. “And now… this? Ned, what is this? What are you getting into?”

“I can’t tell you.” The press of a bandage, an annoyed sigh. “No, seriously, Boyd, I can’t tell you.”

“No patented Chicane charm? No elaborate, intricate, hardly believable lie?” Ned opens his eyes to see Boyd raising a brow.

Inhibitions scrubbed away by weariness and whiskey, Ned says, “I don’t want to lie to you, Boyd.”

Shock leaves Boyd’s expression open and vulnerable. “Wh-”

“I don’t want to lie to you, Boyd. I… I won’t, I can’t steal for you. That’s… That’s not me, not now, but you’re right.” Ned’s hands clench. “I owe you. I. I fucked up. I mean, we both fucked up, that’s undeniable, but I fucked up too and I owe you and I won’t lie to you about this. It’s too big. Too important.” His head’s a little fuzzy. Maybe he drank too much too fast. He’s not as young as he used to be.

“Ned,” Boyd starts, but Ned cuts him off.

“Take my shit, if you must, Boyd,” Ned says, “I’d rather you didn’t, obviously, but. I mean - the safe, that necklace from that last night, I - I need that back. But the rest, you can take it, I just. Get out of here, Boyd,” he says, desperation creeping into his voice, “it’s not safe. It’s. I can’t do this. Not now.”

Boyd doesn’t say anything. He meets Ned’s gaze squarely, a minute passing, before Ned can’t continue and looks down. 

And then - the briefest scratch of stubble and chapped lips on Ned’s own, and Boyd moves back. Ned clutches the bottle like a lifeline, sees Boyd’s feet move away towards the door.

Sees them stop by Ned’s jacket crumpled in the corner, not quite covering the magnum. Sees him nudge back the jacket, take in the revolver and the modified toy alike, and then leave.

Ned hears the door downstairs click closed. He sets down the whiskey and falls asleep right in the couch. 

He dreams about sharp blue eyes and a warm laugh.

\-----

They’ve got a plan, and as plans go, it’s not their worst. Which isn’t really saying much, to be honest, but it seems solid enough. 

The Nuckelavee is afraid of running water, for whatever reason. Can’t cross it. Duck pointed out a bend in the Cranberry River that they could lead and trap the abomination in, bottleneck it up, and let loose. Ned’s got his energy draining blaster, Aubrey’s magics are getting fairly terrifying, and Duck’s got a bitching sword, so. They figure they’ll manage. 

Ned is even less scared than he normally is! Still seconds away from bolting, but like, a few more seconds. 

They’re spread around, hooting and calling, trying to lure the Nuckelavee to them, get it where they want it. Ned’s singing showtunes at the top of his lungs, fingers curled comfortingly against the bright orange and yellow plastic of the NARF blaster. 

“I wish the walls were full of gold-” Ned sings, his voice shaking a mite.

“I wish for a lot of things,” a second voice sings, and then Ned’s pointing the blaster straight at Boyd Mosche, and his heart falls down to his feet.

“Boyd,” Ned whispers.

“Hello, old partner,” Boyd says. “What the bloody hell are you doing?” The moonlight gleams through the trees, splaying across Boyd’s chiseled jaw and crossed arms. He gives Ned a once over, and something almost like concern slips into his accent. “Singing showtunes at midnight in the forest with a kid’s toy gun - did you hit your head in that accident, Ned?”

“Boyd, fuck me running, I told you to leave,” moans Ned. “I - what are you doing here, did you - did you follow me?! Oh shit, oh hell, you need to get out of the woods, now!”

“It wasn’t hard to follow that lovely voice of yours, Ned, and I’m not going anywhere until I get a goddamn explanation.” Boyd stands straighter.

“You don’t- you don’t get it, you’re gonna get killed out here, I-”

“What, with a few foam bullets? Ned, I-”

And then Ned hears rustling, and a horrible creaking, and there’s a shadow behind Boyd.

“Boyd, MOVE!” Ned screams, and instinctively, Boyd darts forward, out of the way of Ned’s aim, and Ned fires.

The blue jolts of energy fire from the blaster and hit the Nuckelavee, the monstrous beast screeching, metal-on-metal, and a faint smell like burning meat hits Ned’s nose at the same time a slow trickle of energy flows into Ned’s limbs. (God fuckin’ bless Heathcliff, honestly.) He fires a few more shots, but the Nuckelavee rears up on its hindlegs, its rubbery arms flailing, and Ned grabs Boyd’s arm.

“Ned,” Boyd says, slow and deep and clear, “Ned, what is that?”

“It’s bad, and we need to go, now,” Ned says, and tugs. They run. 

They run, crashing awkwardly through the forest, and Ned calls for Duck and Aubrey at the top of his lungs, screaming, and beside him Boyd curses and follows.

Ned’s terrified, out of breath, the metallic screeches and clumsy hoofbeats of the abomination behind them, but.

But this is…

The Nuckelavee is slowed a little by the close evergreens, its body too big to move at its true speed, its arms getting caught in the branches. Distantly, Ned hears Aubrey and Duck shouting for him and he swerves towards their voices, Boyd following, and then Ned realizes he’s… 

...he’s laughing. 

“N-Ned-!” Boyd gasps out, “what - what the fuck-”

“I t, I told you I was doing important work, darlin’!” Ned manages to say between breaths and laughter.

“What the f-” And then there’s Aubrey, her hands alight with flame, and when she sees Ned laughing she laughs too, infectious and bright, and Duck’s got Beacon drawn and he stares.

“Ned, who the hell-”

“I’ll explain later we gotta do this now!” Ned cries, and the Nuckelavee crashes behind them.

They’re in a small clearing, bordered on three sides by a small curve in the river, and that afternoon the three of them had dug two parallel, deep trenches. The Nuckelavee leaps over them to attack, its arm swinging, and Duck swings Beacon. 

Beacon cackles greasily and slices through one of the Nuckelavee’s hands, and the severed limb hits the ground and seems to almost melt into a puddle of black ooze that seeps into the ground. The Nuckelavee screams and swipes with its other hand, catching both Ned and Aubrey and flinging the, back. Ned lets out a whoof as he hits the ground, but manages to scramble up. Aubrey rushes behind the abomination.

Behind it now, she lights a line of fire, right between the trenches, trapping the four of them and the abomination in the clearing.

“Oh, great, we’re trapped now,” Boyd says, gasping for breath, eyes wide with terror. Ned grins and chuckles. 

“I’d rather say it’s trapped with us, my good friend.”

“Ned, who the fuck is that?” Duck asks again, but rather than answer, Ned levels the NARF blaster at the Nuckelavee with one hand and the mangum in the other, and fires.

He hits it square on, and it screeches again, before Aubrey’s flames light it up, its horrid skinless body alight with crackling flames, and then Beacon snakes its way across the abomination’s neck and it’s dead.

The Nuckelavee melts into the ground like its hand had, leaving nothing but a vaguely circle shaped blight and a few flames which Aubrey quickly puts out with a flick of her wrist, and then it’s quiet for a second before Aubrey cheers. 

“We did it! And nobody died or even got that hurt!” she yells, throwing a fist in the air.

“Whoo,” says Duck, and he slips Beacon back into his belt loops before it can say something nasty.

Ned clicks the safety back on the magnum and then puts both weapons back into his makeshift holsters. “Methinks we’re getting quite good at this.”

“What the fuck,” Boyd says faintly.

“Oh, right. Ned, who-?” Aubrey starts. 

“Oh! Oh, dear how rude of me,” says Ned boisterously, still grinning a little, gesturing towards the shell-shocked Boyd. “I never introduced you all. Boyd, these are Duck Newton, and Aubrey Little, also known as the Lady Flame, my coworkers. Duck, Aubrey, meet Boyd Mosche, my, hmm,” he pauses, looking over Boyd, “eeeeex-partner? Yes, ex-partner.”

“Like, romantically, or, uh, crime-wise, or…?” Duck blinks. 

“Yes,” say Ned and Boyd simultaneously, and the two of them exchange quick glances, then burst out laughing. Ned falls against Boyd, and Boyd is warm and solid against him, and it’s not quite right of course, but - but. But.

“Hey, Boyd,” Ned says, “you want a job?”

**Author's Note:**

> i still dk. find me on [tumblr](https://dishesoap.tumblr.com/)


End file.
